


Buried Past

by charmed_seconds



Category: Charmed
Genre: Gen, Mentioned Childhood Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmed_seconds/pseuds/charmed_seconds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Traumatized as a young child, Chris's mind repressed the memories that haunted him. Now fifteen, the memories are back, and demanding to be dealt with. The young teen turns to the things that harm him instead of turning to his family, but will a demon force the Witchlighter to reveal his hidden past?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this story is rated Mature. This story will include mentioned sexual abuse of a child. This might include graphic mentioning that might be unsettling to some readers. Please read at your own risk.
> 
> Thank you for any future subscriptions/kudos/comments that I get. I will try to answer to the comments, but I'm not sure of my future schedule. Updates will be spontaneous as always as I don't follow a set schedule as I don't have a set schedule in real life.
> 
> Thank you for reading. And I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> That is all.

**Prologue : A Requiem Symphony**

It used to sing. Its notes would dance among the manor walls and make the owners smile. The rhythms and beats would keep the household running in time. It was always after three, once the novels and notebooks were tucked away and would last until dinner. A small break in the notes were replaced with words and laughter. Then, the taps of the strings were changed with that of a hum.  
The notes would cascade from the strings and bow. They sang, the words silent but still shouting. Symphonies echoed through the halls and covered pop songs entertained the younger ones. Every few months, the music would be showcased. Talent was broadcast and mentors stood proudly as their proclaimed prodigy showed off their teachings.  
But as the smiles turned to frowns, the music grew more silent. The singing notes were replaced with shouts and anger. Dust grew upon ivory and string. Dreams of play grew sinister. Wood became dull. Colors shifted to black. Silence overtook the music. Reality blended with nightmares; and nightmares spoke truths.


	2. Classical Dissonance

**Chapter One : Classical Dissonance**

The first thing he noticed every morning was the deep, dark bruises underneath his eyes. They were always there. His sage green eyes; the very eyes that his mother used to fawn over, always wore a haunted expression. They spoke of stories that have yet to pass his lips and of pain that haven't been felt.  
The last thing he noticed every morning was the chill. No matter how warm the California air got, he felt as if he was in a subzero terrain. He always wore jeans and long-sleeves. It didn't keep him warm; but to be wrapped up in something was a small comfort in a world of darkness for him. The fabric wound tightly around his body kept him grounded. Kept him in reality and prevented the nightmares from filtering into his waking world.  
It hindered the thought that every blond woman he saw was Melody. It helped him when his thoughts turned dark, whether they be in a dungeon or within a dark bedroom. And just like every morning before, his musings always ventured back to his dream - his memory - and it was only broken by one thing :

"Wyatt! Chris! You're going to be late!"

His mother's shout from downstairs. Wyatt, the oh-so perfect Wyatt, always ignored his alarm clock and slept until now. He, on the other hand, was awake long before the sun peered over the horizon. He just never went downstairs.

He was too busy.

He needed to remember. Frantic scribbles and words were in fraying notebooks. His unheard pleas screaming in ink; begging for salvation.

"Wyatt! Ass out of bed! Chris! Breakfast! Now, you two!"

Chris sighed and leaned his forehead against the mirror in his bedroom, his eyes sliding shut.

Blond.

Soft hands.

He took in a shaky breath. The frightened eyes were back. Shaking his head, he stood straight and ran a hand through his hair; the shaggy strands dyed midnight. He rubbed his eyes and grabbed his coat from the back of his computer chair. Another shout from his mother made him grab his backpack and trot down the stairs.

A tense smile. It was always on his mother's face in his morning. It said "I wish you would tell me what's wrong" and "I'm worried" in the same expression. And he always sent a small, forced smile back. It was false reassurance. She had every right to be worried.

Most people have a grasp on sanity. Some have a firm grasp. Others have a few loose strings but have a few guiding hands to keep everything in check. His grasp was pure slack. A thin string was being held by a pinch; and a single gust of wind could leave him in a fetal position weeping like the child he felt like inside.

"About time, Peanut." Piper said, gently pushing him towards the kitchen, "Eat. Quickly. Hopefully your brother will wake up!" her last two words were directed back up the stairs. Chris plopped his backpack onto one of the dining room chairs and sank into the neighboring one.

Lethargically, he cut into the small stack of pancakes and began eating. "Hey buddy,"

Chris glanced up from his fourth bite and greeted his father with a small twitch of his lips. His father's hand- coarse from the handyman work he did on the side - ruffled his hair before he slid into the kitchen for his morning cup of coffee. His breakfast was gone by time Wyatt made his appearance. The blond was still half-asleep and didn't look too interested in the pancakes. The coffee on the other hand was guzzled down. Chris rolled his eyes and slipped his hand into his pocket. Headphones were unraveled and pressed into his ears. While music no longer fell from his fingers, it was still a solace that he seeked.

He leaned back and gazed at the bleak, white ceiling. His eyes fluttering shut; but, wouldn't close. They couldn't close. If he fell asleep among his family, they would know. They couldn't know. The mere idea that his mother let in the woman that scarred his soul. That his father paid the woman that wounded him. That his brother played with the woman that dirtied him. All three trusted her. She trusted them. She used him. He felt nothing.

A tap on the shoulder brought him from his mind, his brother gesturing for him to get up and follow him to the truck. With a heavy sigh, Chris picked up his backpack and pecked his mother's cheek before heading out. The drive was silent, as always. His brother focused on the road. He was focused on not exposing anything. Once in the parking lot, Wyatt turned off the truck, turned to him and said the same two sentences that he said every morning : "Be happy." and "Find me if you need anything.".

At that moment, every morning, Chris could feel the tears spring up, the tears of a child broken and wishing for salvation. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and confess. To disclose the raw tidbits of his dark childhood that were being showcased within his mind every night. He wanted to push his demons forward and let his big brother - the brother that has protected him from every evil being (all except one, his mind added) - vanquish them and allow him to heal.

But, he never does.

He merely squeezed his brother's hand before sliding out. He knew his brother was watching him from the truck. He knew that Wyatt's blue eyes were analyzing him. Wondering. Worrying. And that always hurt him more than the memories.

The memories were things of the past. Things that would forever haunt him and shape him into the person he was still becoming.

But the sheer fact that he was leading his family onto a dark path crushed him. They were  _his_  demons. They were  _his_  problems.

They were  _his_  damnation.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Two : Minor Expressionism**

The scent of chocolate chip cookies, comforting within itself, welcomed him home. His mother rushed out of the kitchen, wringing a worn towel within her hands. A peck upon each of her son's cheeks was their greeting, along with questions. Wyatt's latest football game. Wyatt's student council meeting. Her eyes would then shift to him. She wanted to inquired. He could see that in her eyes. The questions nearly at her lips; but, the piano has gone silent and the violin stayed perched in its holder for months now, silencing her inquires.

Then Wyatt's eyes would turn to him. Chris would merely look back until Wyatt couldn't take it anymore. Their gazes, so soft and worrying, only added fuel to his guilt. He would murmur an excuse and scamper upstairs. Closing his door left the trouble of family behind it; but did nothing for the demons upon his shoulders. He dropped his backpack into his computer chair and sat on the edge of his bed. The heels of his palms dug into his eye sockets.

He wanted to be free. To be liberated from the cold dark world that was his mind. Leaning back, Chris let his muscles relax for a fleeting moment. He let his body take in the soft mattress beneath him. But just as his exhausted body took it in, his eyes threatening to shut, he sat up with a quiet groan. He forced his body to stand and stagger to the closet. Nestled in the corner on the shelf was a tiny, white bottle. Labeled as allergy medicine, it was a bottle that his mother had given him years ago. Small ivory pills poured out of it. Three made it into his mouth and he swallowed dried.  
He took a deep breath and moved his backpack to the floor so he could fall into the chair. His hand came up to rub his forehead. The pills would keep his drowsiness away. Provigil, a drug he nabbed from a friend with an over-sleeping problem, helped him stay awake. Four days. His sanity is quickly leaving him; but, not seeing the dark abyss that was his brother's - no, not Wyatt - kingdom or the cold world of long ago left him with a false sense of freedom that was overpowering. That, itself, was a drug.  
Shaking his head, he reached into his bag and withdrew his homework for the evening. Halfway through, just like every evening, he would be called down for dinner. Where laughter and joyful chatter once overflowed, silence invaded. The soft clank of forks against plates were the only sounds. Muttered requests were the only words. Like clockwork, fifteen minutes into the dinner, he got up and went into the living room. He sank down into the couch and stared.  
They mocked him.  
The ivory keys. The silver strings.  
The medals and trophies that praise his once-upon talent.  
Years of lessons. Hours of practice.  
Wasted.  
Lost.  
A soft touch. Glancing up, he found himself staring into similar eyes. His father.  
"We're going to the store, buddy," he said, whispering, "Do you want to come with?"  
Chris broke eye contact. A shake of his head. A soft sigh. Leo gently patted his shoulder before following Wyatt and Piper out of the manor. Chris sat on the couch - stoic. He heard the near silent revving of the engine and its farewell.  
They continued to mock him.  
Standing, he tensely walked. Back straight. Head held high. He forced the cover of the piano back, exposing the black and white. A ghost of the touch.  
They were dusty.  
Pulling the bench out, he slowly sat down. It was so alien. With quivering hands, he laid each finger on the home keys. He closed his eyes, remembering a time when this moment would fill him with a sense of elation. This was the one place he shined.  
Hesitantly, he pressed down on low E. His finger bounced up and down as the eighth notes continued. He moved his ring finger pressed on the low C as he played a high C with his right hand. Soon, it was coming back. B with his left, A; C; B with his right. The notes danced among the air. The piano sang in joy. He closed his eyes.  
He felt free.  
Blond.  
He was free.  
Touches.  
She was gone.  
Whispers.  
No.  
Unwanted.  
No.  
Soiled.  
His eyes sprang open. His breathing erratic. With a loud shout, he slammed his hands down onto the keys, the broken chords reverberating through the house. **  
**

He didn't want it.

The cacophony continued. Notes crashed against the walls. The dissonance screamed.

He didn't want it!

His eyes flashed to the window. They were back. Gulping, he quickly shut the piano away. They couldn't know. Glancing around, he found the music books spewed around the room. With a mutter and a wave of his hand, they flew back to their home perched on top of the piano. He heard the key in the door. His heart raced. As the door opened, he evaporated.

He reappeared in the corner of his bedroom. His legs were pressed to his chest. Tears stung in his eyes.

He didn't want it.

He didn't.

A scream.

Standing, he looked around.

Another scream. His father.

A crunch. Shattering glass.  
A dark chuckle.  
He turned around.  
Darkness.


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Three : Duet Minuet**

It was dark and musky. The pungent smell of mold and death hung in the air. Beneath his cheek was a pillow of ice. His temple, however, was on fire - a small stream of warmth flowed down to the nape of his neck. With a soft groan, he opened his eyes. Thick, metal bars imprisoned him. The cell was barely bigger than his bedroom in the manor; but it housed all of his immediate family.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to sit up. He prodded his wound with tender fingers and hissed from the spark of pain that came with it. Chris glanced at his family, the three were still unconscious. He turned and examined the surrounding area and met a pair of ruby red eyes.

He jumped. A dark, feminine chuckle danced around the dungeon as the eyes rose. "We'll have a lot of fun," the whisper spoke, "So much darkness in a soul. So savory. Never thought I would find such a feast within such a benevolent family."

Chris narrowed his eyes. This time the chuckle was a booming laugh. "You think you can defy me? You're a mere infant compared to me. Soon, Child, we'll have our fun. Your family is awakening, perhaps you should see to them."

Chris shuddered as the eyes seemingly vanished. Shaking his head, he turned back towards his family. His mother's eyebrows were knitted together as she fought through the marsh of her conscious. His father's eyes were open as was Wyatt's. "And here I was hoping for Malibu," Wyatt sighed.

Leo snickered at his son's attempt at a joke as he brushed aside some of Piper's hair as she started to regain consciousness. "At least the others aren't here."

"Probably just jinxed it for them, Dad. I'll be sure to let Aunt Paige know." Wyatt threatened lightly.

Leo settled a small glare on his eldest before helping his wife to sit up. She frowned when she saw their surroundings. She sighed as she sat up, her eyes briefly quickly examining her sons. "You're bleeding,"

Chris shrugged and looked back at the shadowed corner; part of him expecting to see two red orbs watching him.

"Do we know what they want?" he heard his mother inquire.

"Probably run of the mill 'wanna-kill-the-Halliwells', Mom." Wyatt answered.

Piper sighed and kneaded his eyes. "Any way out?"

"Barrier," Leo answered, "No magic."

Piper swore, the woman stood on quivering legs. Leo quickly followed to help her stand fully as a dark, malicious laugh filtered into the dungeon. "I would sit down. Wouldn't want to cause more harm to yourself, would you?"

"Who the hell are you?!" Piper shouted.

A silhouette stood in the doorway, gleaming red eyes the only distinguishing figure visible from the shadow. "I go by Scáth among the witches, and many devious, disgusting names between the demons." Another chuckle accentuated the introduction, "And you, have a feast within your kin."

Chris froze. The demonic eyes slid over to him, "Yes, Child, you."

"You leave him alone!" Piper yelled.

"But I am oh-so hungry," mocked Scáth, "You hold no power here, Witch. Don't try to appear as though you do." Her eyes return to her prey, "Fear has been instilled. I can smell it brewing within you... making you so delicious." A dark laugh chilled the Halliwells to the bone, "I have an idea! You need to simmer, no? I haven't found someone as mouthwatering as you, Child. You should feel blessed. I will come back, Child, don't get me wrong. Keep your fear close," the red eyes disappeared and Chris tenses as he felt a hand ghost over the side of his neck, "It will just make you more succulent."

A snap of the fingers; and darkness encompassed him.

* * *

His bedroom was both a comfort and a distress. His body welcomed the comfort of his bed beneath him; but the sheer aspect that a demon was out for him chilled his nerves. He sat up and glanced around. It was nighttime, and he could hear his mother and father talking down the hall; and he could only assume his brother was there as well. .  
On shaky legs, he made his way down the hallway and up the small flight of stairs to the attic. His mother was flipping through the Book of Shadows feverishly while his father had a tome on another table and his brother was busy on his computer probably researching. The door clicked shut behind him and his mother's head snapped up. "Oh, sweetie..."  
He flinched.

"Everything is fine."

His eyes drifted downwards. She's always babying him. He knew that she desperately wanted to take him into her arms, but he didn't feel the comforting embrace of a mother, instead felt the restraining arms of Melody.  
"Go rest, buddy. We got it." His father said.  
Chris slid back out of the attic and sank back into this room. He found himself nestled on the edge of his bed, wringing his hands together. He could still feel the demon's cold, thin fingers ghosting over the side of his neck in a sick imitation of a comforting caress. Cringing, he leaned down, his head between his knees. He rubbed feverishly at the side of his neck, wanting - needing the feel of her fingers gone.  
Shaking hands left the side of his neck and began to play with the sleeve of his black shirt. Standing, he began to pace the small bedroom, his thoughts winding through the path of discord that was his mind. As his anxiety rose, his fingers moved from the cuff to his mouth, his teeth gnawing into the soft skin. The sharp tang of blood was faintly registered but did nothing to stop the behavior.  
Once his thumb was decimated, he moved onto his index finger; then his middle and down the line. A knock on the door made him twirl around, his green eyes wide as the door eased open. His brother stood in the threshold, a concern expression on his face. "Mom wants to know if you want to eat."  
Chris merely shook his head and sank down into the chair. He couldn't put up the facade tonight. He couldn't handle the looks on their faces. He needed solace. He needed isolation. He heard Wyatt sigh before the door clicked shut. Leaning back, he rolled up his sleeves - exposing reddened skin and rubbed. Rubbed away the touch of an unwanted woman. Rubbed away the taint of a sinful guider. Rubbed away the dread and doubt; only or it to come back once he was done.

* * *

He lay in bed, his comforter bound tightly around him, his eyes wide open as he forced his body to go through one more night. A breeze upon his cheek made him wince and his eyes snap to the window. It was shut.  
"Child," cooed a woman's voice, "So tightly bound as if you are a present." Chris whimpered as the back of a hand brushed his cheek, "You're almost ripe, Child. Prepare. For your pain will be my meal."


	5. Neoclassical Allegro

Every noise. Every breath. Every movement.

It made him flinch like once before. A simple knock on his bedroom door made his heart batter against his chest; adrenaline pulsing through his veins urging him to get up and run, to flee from the demon that was surely behind the oak barrier. His bedroom has become his sanctuary.  
And his jail cell.  
He sat in the corner of his room, huddled against the cold walls - waiting. His fingertips were nothing but bloody bits from severe anxiety attacks. His supply of Provigil was quickly running out. His mind - awake for five days - was running rampant. His body begged for sleep, but his mind feared the haunting memories.  
Groaning, Chris leaned forward. He pushed his palm into his right eye, trying for focus on the here and now; not the wastelands of his purgatory.  
A soft rustle.  
Chris slowly lifted his head.  
He screamed.

* * *

 

Metal bit into his skin, scarring it even farther than his own hands have done. Faintly, he could hear his name. People were yelling for him. "Good evening, Child."  
He tensed. Hesitantly, he twisted his head and saw the pair of ruby eyes, a mocking grin, and his nightmare. She cooed softly. "You look tired," she whispered, her finger ghosting over the dark bruises beneath his eyes, "Oh-so tired,"  
"Get your hands off of him!" he heard his mother scream.  
He turned and faced forward. His family - all of them - were in the small cell. His aunts and uncle were cradling their children close while his mother and father held the bars tightly in their grasp in a futile attempt to reign in their fury. Wyatt was by the door, fiddling with the lock as he tried to pry his way out of the jail.  
Scáth tsked, "You really should be worried about yourself, Child." she scolded.  
Chris yelped when the sharp sting of a slap radiated from his cheek. He coughed before spitting out blood from his cut lip. With cold eyes, he looked into the red eyes. Scáth smirked, "That's better." she leaned in close, her nose gracing the side of his neck, "So ripe. Delicious."  
"Leave him alone, you bitch!" his mother yelled.  
Scáth's head flew back as a menacing laugh filled the dungeon. She sauntered over to the jail cell, "Piper Halliwell, eldest of the Charmed Ones, stuck in a cell while I torture her precious, darling baby boy," A dark smile spread over her face, "It's a beautiful tale, no? The Charmed Ones can't even protect their kin!"  
"Leave them alone," Chris gritted out, "You want me; not them."  
She stood fully, her lean body carving a sliver of darkness within the stone cavern. She snickered as she walked over to a nearby torch, the flame illuminating the small room. The fire danced on her skin; the flesh the color of dark ivory, and smiled. She gracefully picked it up and twirled. "You wield the power of pyrokinesis, no?" she murmured, "A power revered by many demons; but yet, it houses itself within you."  
Chris narrowed his eyes as Scáth slid a finger up his chest. "But yet, the fire makes you flinch," she accused as she held the torch close to Chris's face.  
"Your point?" Chris snapped.  
Scáth smiled, "None. A mere observation." She leaned forward, her body pushing into Chris's as she slid the torch into a holder beside his suspended arms, "Now, Child, I'm starving."  
Chris's heartbeat started racing. "Leave me alone. I've done nothing-"  
"I'm a demon, Child!" Scáth chuckled, "I don't need a reason to feast, I merely need motivation. You...You are the perfect motivation. You alone could feed me for years!"  
"Why my family? If you only wanted me, why take them?"  
Scáth frowned. Gently, she caressed his cheek with the back of her hand, "Because, Child, your pain will breed more pain into them; furthering my feast and...furthering the downfall of the Halliwell line." Turning her hand, she cupped Chris's cheek, "So many memories within one soul. So much pain. So much torture." Her expression turn manic, "All mine!"  
Ripping her hand from his cheek, she walked towards the cell. "Blindness within a kin. So much ignorance. It feeds pain, making it multiple like a festering virus. You," she looked at Piper and Leo, "You two, should take much satisfaction knowing that you are a helping hand in your son's downfall."  
Turning once more, she looked at Chris; the young teenager hanging on the stone wall. She cocked her head as if she was thinking. She took a step forward, her hand outstretched. "Péine an am atá caite, nochtann féin!"  
Chris felt coldness wash over his body. He could hear the chains rattle as his muscles went slack. In the background, he could hear his mother's calls and his father's yell. He could feel himself falling. Tumbling into a dark abyss that was locked away.  
"It started young?" A whispered voice broke into his mind.  
A faint touch on the cheek. "So young. A mere child. Oh yes, I can see."  
Chris struggled. He didn't want to see the blond. He didn't want to feel the touches.  
He was fifteen.  
Not four.  
She was gone.  
She left.  
"No!" Chris shook his head.  
Gritting his teeth, he glared at a smiling Scáth, "Stay...out of my...head." His breathing was labored.  
"But its such a torn place," Scáth murmured, "Did you like it?"  
"Shut. Up."  
Scáth snickered and walked towards the bound man, "Did you love her touch? Did you welcome her kisses?" She planted her hands on either side of Chris's head, "Her hands on you, holding you as she caressed your young, childish body. Your tears meant nothing as she tore your clothes of-"  
"Shut up," Chris had his eyes closed, begging for the memories to stay locked.  
"off. Her hands wrapped around-"  
"Chris! What is she-"  
"But that's not all she did? She did more," Scáth's booming laugh echoed throughout the dungeon, "Oh, no, that's not all she did."  
Chris turned his head, tears slipping through his grasp. "Not in front of them."  
Scáth smiled and slowly lowered her hand. "And why not, Child? So many years, living with such a secret, you must be desperate to tell them."  
"My burden."  
Scáth chuckled, "Did you enjoy it? Did you? When she," Chris gasped when he felt a hand grasp his gentials tightly, "touched you like this. Sad that you were a mere child and couldn't grasp the concept of pleasure."  
"Unhand him!" He heard his mother yell, "Now!"  
"Did you relish when she kissed you?" she whispered as lightly pecked Chris's neck, "Aw, you're crying."  
"Stop."  
Scáth took a deep breath, her nose pressed into crook of Chris's neck and shoulder, "Perfect pickings."  
Leaning back, she saw that Chris's eyes no longer harbored the clarity of sanity. "I didn't want it. I-I didn't want it."  
"What did you do to him!" Piper shouted, "Tell me, you bitch!"  
Scáth turned and gave the Halliwell matriarch as sinister smile, "I've done nothing; but merely, awaken his memories." she whispered before disappearing in a whisp.

 

 

 


	6. Affannato Acceso

He wasn't there anymore. He was trapped.  
He was six again. Held down on his bed, a high-pitched, sinister laugh filling his small body with fear. He just wanted to run; but, the hands : they were holding him down. He could feel his pants being shimmied down, along with his underwear seconds later. He cried.  
He cried for his mother. For his father. For his brother. He wanted to be saved; but, no one was home. No one could save him.  
She touched him. Fondled him.  
He cried. He yelled.  
She cooed at him. Tried to give him comfort as she continued to strip him of his shirt, her hands rubbing his chest as she lowered herself onto him. **  
**

"Stop it!"

Chris sucked in a shuddering breath. The pungent aroma of stone and smoke brought him back to reality. He was still chained to the cold wall. Small streams of blood trickled from his wrists from the iron biting into his skin. Apparently, he was struggling during his remembering. "Oh, you're back,"

Chris turned his head and saw Scáth, leaning comfortably against the wall beside him. He looked forward and saw his mother sobbing into his father's arms. "What did you do?" Chris growled.

"It is not what I did, Child," Scáth tisked, "It is what you did. Screaming for your mommy. Begging for your father to save you. So pathetic, but yet..." she smirked as she licked her fingers, "so delicious."

"Leave him alone, you bitch!" Piper screamed, "He did nothing against you."

"But why should I forgo such a delicious feast?" Scáth retorted, chuckling, "And you pain, oh, it doesn't even begin to shimmer and I already thirst for it. The pain of a mother has a tang that no other pain has. It coats my throat of days."

Turning around, Scáth smiled as she sauntered closer to Chris. She cupped his right cheek, "Christopher...the Bearer of Christ...does that mean you bear his pain as well. The pain of being left behind, to sacrifice parts of you that no one should ask you to. To take what you never gave. To be something you never wanted to be," she whispered, "To bear a pain that is forced upon you," she lightly tapped his forehead, "Memories battling each other. Lying awake at night, witnessing it over and over again. You poor soul."

Chris narrowed his eyes at the demon, "If you're going to kill me, then do it damn it! For God Sakes, just kill me."

"You would welcome it wouldn't you, Child," Scáth accused, "To relinquish the pain to the abyss that is death."

"Stop jerking me around and stop speaking. Do what ever you're going to do!"

Scáth smiled, her fingers dancing along the pulsing vein on the side of his throat. "Child, you're in so much pain. So...much...pain." She grinned and placed her palm on Chris's forehead.

He jerked as pain erupted from his body. Her touch was all over. Her breath was heavy against his cheek. Melody's voice surrounded him. The walls evaporated from his view and it was just her. Her nude body bouncing up and down. Her moans of pleasure drowning out his wails of pain.

Then the walls were back; but, they were different. They were stained with blood. Red-tinted chains hung limply against the cold stone. He whimpered as a flash of pain sparked on his lower back. Again. Again. And again. Then, he deep, baritone chuckle made him freeze. It was him.

"Little brother,"

"No."

"How could you betray-"

"No."

"Why did you-"

"No!"

"I thought we were-"

"No!"

Heat blanketed over his front. A pillar of light broke through his closed eyelids and a shrill scream made him tense. Then...nothing but pure, bliss darkness.


	7. Adagio Coda

The darkness was haunted by memories once forgotten. Her touches seemed like ants crawling upon his skin, nipping and biting him as he struggled to get away. Her lips were like molten fire pressed upon his flesh as he lurched away only to be grabbed again. Her arms, once a place of comfort, were like thick iron bars holding him captive as he kicked and screamed. It only seemed to fuel her hellish wants.  
He remembers her hands, long and smooth, pushing him into the bed. Her voice was thick with lust as she stripped him of his clothes and of her own. He never seen a nude body before and for a split second he was captivated by the sheer nativity of it. Then she lowered herself on top of him and reality hit. He screamed. He yelled for his brother; for his mother; for his father; but no one showed. He was alone. That realization was colder than the hands on his skin.  
Then the pain. The pain of her groping him, coaxing him into a sense of false arousal that no boy his age should experience. He sobbed as she forced himself upon him. Tears fell from his eyes as his innocence was stripped from him. It only took a few minutes before she was done. She smiled at him and tapped his quivering lips, a simple wink from her as the front door was opening beneath them. She helped him into his pajamas and settled him back into bed; and during his sleep, his mind shattered.  
And for eleven years, the misplaces pieces of his memories kept him sane.  
Then, one fateful night, no more dreams of playing with magic. The comfortable walls of the manor was shed and the cold, unforgiving cement walls of a dungeon replaced them. His wrists and ankles were bound by thick metal. His shirtless body shivered in the moist cold. He could feel something thick sliding down his back and arms. A deep, malicious chuckle floated around him causing him to look around. When a familiar blond walked into light, cold blue eyes scanning over him, he awoke to a room plunged in darkness and a sense of horror in his heart. At the age of fifteen, the pieces once forgotten were being picked up and placed into their correct spots.  
When he opened his eyes this time, he was expecting to be still bound to the wall, a pair of ruby eyes gleaming back at him. Instead, he found the dark blue walls of his bedroom and the comfort of his bed. He slowly sat up, looking around, half-expecting to find it a sick joke conjured by the demon. When he heard the heartbroken voice of his mother, it locked everything in.  
They knew.  
He pulled his knees closer. Tears welled up in his eyes without meaning. They knew.  
They were damned just like him.  
He was no longer going to be Chris, their son or brother or nephew or cousin.  
He would simply be Chris, rape victim.  
Reaching up, he yanked at his hair. The fleeting pain grounded him, made him think. They would force him to do things he wasn't ready for. He couldn't go and talk to someone. How would he explain the other sets of memories? How could he explain how the repressed memories were now coming back from his past?  
The hair yanking shifted to gnawing his fingertips. He tore at scabs, tasting the tangy iron of his blood as it welled up on his ivory skin. He clutched his legs closer. Unbeknownst, tears trickled down his cheeks. When he heard the door ease open, his head shot up. His brother stood in the archway, looking torn and bewildered. Chris could feel his chin shaking as he tried to hold in the sobs.  
He saw Wyatt frown and enter his room. The blond stopped for a few seconds only to close the door before heading to the bed. He laid down like he used to and brought his little brother close. He let Chris wrap his arms around him before settling in. Tears soaked his shirt; but, he didn't care. Chris's sobs shook the whole bed and made the headrest rattle. Wyatt held back his own tears as Chris released his own; but, as the crying became louder, Wyatt couldn't stop the few the seeped out.  
Gently, he placed a kiss on the top of his little brother's head and simply whispered, "Sorry."

* * *

He curled his sweatshirt sleeve around his hand, and fiddled with the hem of it, wishing he was anywhere but here. A young man, a bit short in stature, sat in the seat across from him. A patient expression on his face. The only hint that he wasn't of pure mortal blood was the tipped ears and the ethereal glow he seemed to have.  
Chris licked his lips. This was the third time he met with him, and no words have been exchanged. How could he open up to a complete stranger?  
He glanced at the thick wood door that divided himself and his family. His mother and father brought him here every Monday and Wednesday after school, hoping that this would allow him to understand what was going on and for him to heal.  
Chris's gaze shifted back to his sleeves, his fingers speeding up in the playing. Gulping, his looked up at the elvish man, "At the age of six...I was raped."

* * *

The months were slow moving. Numerous back peddling and tears were shed throughout the days. There were still good days where for moments, Piper and Leo thought they had their old son back : the son that smiled without a care and laughed freely. Then, there were bad days where they worried for his sanity and had to hide all the sharp objects within the house.  
Then, one night they heard it.  
It was late at night, long before the moon had risen and long before the sun would appear at the horizon. It filtered into their rooms as if a hushed lullaby. Piper was the first to rise, her hand shaking her husband awake. Wrapping herself in her robe, she met up with her oldest son in the hallway. The three of them tiptoed downstairs. By now, it was louder.  
Leaning around the wall, Piper covered her mouth to muffle the sob.  
The dust had been lifted and the ivory was singing. Beautiful notes rang out from the strings as he pressed down upon pedals and danced along the keys. Melodies wrapped around them; the chords unheard for months blanketing heavily on their skin. They didn't know the tune he was playing; but it didn't matter. It only sang one thing to them :  
Healing.

 


End file.
